


Respite

by Champagne



Series: Displaced [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Not Pictured: It's All Helen's Fault, Time Travel, s1 Martin, s4 Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Champagne/pseuds/Champagne
Summary: When Martin left work, Jon was still buried up to his eyeballs in his own research.So seeing Jon curled into Martin’s bed, nuzzling into his pillows, is an odd sight. For multiple reasons.Set early Season 1, with mid-to-late Season 4 Jon. Minor Spoilers.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: Displaced [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639171
Comments: 65
Kudos: 1551





	Respite

Martin fumbles with his keys as he tries to unlock his front door. He grumbles and gripes to himself as he almost drops them for a second time before finally getting the right one into the lock and pushing his door open. “No last name _listed_,” he huffs, simmering in his own irritation and exhaustion. “An older woman named Angela, probably still lives in Bexley, _‘Go see what you can find, Martin’_.” He kicks his door shut and feels only a little guilty at the loud bang it makes.

Another long day with nothing to show for it. His stomach growls and he’s at least relieved to remember he already set up dinner for himself, and he just has to fry it. Small mercies.

He kicks off his shoes next to the door and drops his bag on the sofa, pulling off his coat as he makes his way to his bedroom for a clean change of clothes. He’s not as upset now that he’s had a moment to breathe, but he’s not looking forward to trying again tomorrow, because-- Knowing Jon, anything less than thorough will earn him another round of otherwise unwarranted disappointment and snarky comments.

He opens his bedroom door and tosses his jumper onto the foot of the bed before turning on his bedroom light, and then freezes in the doorway.

There’s someone in his bed.

He goes through several waves of panic before he registers the soft snoring, and relaxes enough to take a cautious step over to see their face, and--

It’s Jon.

This isn’t right.

When Martin left work, earlier than usual so he could start his fruitless search for the Angela from the Rentoul statement for the _third_ day in a row, Jon was still buried up to his eyeballs in his own research. His desk was an absolute mess of folders, files and cassette tapes from the ancient tape recorder at his elbow, and he looked like he had no intention of going home that night.

So seeing Jon curled into Martin’s bed, nuzzling into his pillows, is an odd sight. For multiple reasons.

He feels a lance of renewed panic when he has the thought of _Maybe this isn’t Jon at all--_ and he scrambles back to his bedroom doorway. He stands there, half clinging to the threshold, and watches the steady rise and fall of his blankets. 

It takes several minutes before a more rational part of his mind calls that whole idea ridiculous. A supernatural creature of some sort, masquerading as his boss, breaking into his flat, to take a nap? Hardly the stuff of statements. But--

This possible thing that looked like Jon is still asleep. Maybe waking it up is the trigger to the spookier stuff.

Luckily for Martin, Jon doesn’t stir from the light in the hallway, or from the bedroom ceiling light. His breathing is slow and even, and Martin just stares at him in disbelief as he briefly debates calling the police for a B&E, but decides against it. If this is some kind of statement-worthy monster, he is determined to keep the number of casualties as low as possible. Ideally _zero_, but he’s read statements and knows that anything can happen.

And if it’s _not_ some kind of monster, if it is just Jon asleep in his bed, well. As much as Jon-- Martin huffs. As much as Jon _irritates_ him sometimes, is dismissive, overall rude, sends him on wild goose chases for women named Angela who live in Bexley, Martin doesn’t want to stoop to that level. If it is him at all. 

He hesitates, but then walks over to his dresser and pulls out a fresh change of clothes and wonders why, exactly, Jon decided to come _here_, of all places, and looks over at him. _If it’s even him._

Something about the way Jon mumbles in his sleep and rolls over dispels that worry like blowing out a candle, and that frustrates Martin a little. Sure, Jon is-- attractive, _sure_, but something as simple as being _cute_ shouldn’t make Martin certain that it’s actually Jon and not some kind of Spooky Creature.

But he’s still well and thoroughly unconscious, sleeping right through the bright light and the noise, and Martin-- despite Jon (real Jon?) apparently having _broken into his flat_ to take a nap, Martin doesn’t have the heart to purposefully wake him up, threat of death aside. And--

Martin takes another few steps closer, to get a better look at him. He looks _rough_. Dark circles under his eyes, even darker than just a few hours ago, with quite a few new scars. Which.

Martin frowns. New scars in the time it took him to get home?

They look like pock marks on his skin, raised circles of tissue in a wandering pattern down the side of his face, his neck, and possible on his chest as well if it kept going. Nothing Martin had ever seen before, unless Jon decided to get into a fight with a car lighter on the way over.

Or it’s not Jon at all. The worry returns, a hot coal in his chest.

For good measure, he checks the window. It’s still locked.

He shakes his head and goes to change clothes, then heads back out into the kitchen. Might as well make food for the two of them while he waits for Jon to wake up on his own. Then maybe he can get some answers-- or die. Hopefully just answers, though.

Jon emerges a little less than an hour later, once Martin is finishing the stir fry he set up that morning. And somehow, being awake, he looks _even worse_. Frayed at the edges, even more exhausted despite just waking up, pale, and a whole host of other negative descriptors that Martin is too polite to think about. Jon shuffles over and sits down at the table, and sighs so loudly it makes Martin jump.

So. Jon, or not Jon? Either way, Martin is nothing if not a worrier, and he chews on his bottom lip. “Is--”

Jon yelps, and that makes Martin jump again. He looks over wildly, like he hadn’t even noticed Martin there, and then he’s looking him over like he can’t believe Martin is even real.

Something twists in Martin’s stomach at the hopeful incredulity in Jon’s eyes. “Jon?” It’s as much a question of _is it really you?_ as it is _are you alright?_

But the way Jon _softens_, like just saying his name was enough, and the way he looks at Martin with such tentative joy-- it’s suddenly very hard for Martin to breathe around the massive lump in his throat.

“Martin…” And then Jon breathes his name like saying it too loudly will scare him away, like Martin is some kind of skittish deer, and it makes Martin’s stomach flop and his heart stutter in his chest. “Martin, I…”

Jon trails off and is just staring at him in that hopeful way. So Martin tries again. “Is…” He swallows, but his throat doesn’t get any less tight from the chaotic mix of emotions. And suddenly, asking _Is it really you?_ feels immensely silly, so he changes his question to, “Is everything alright?” Then, as an afterthought, “Did something happen?”

“Did--” Jon’s expression goes blank, a confusion washing over him that snuffs out the light in his eyes. Martin begins to panic as seconds pass by, something broken to the slack expression on Jon’s face, until Jon looks down at his hands and exhales. Martin follows his eyes, and chokes at the horrific burn marring Jon’s entire left hand and part of his forearm. That _definitely_ wasn’t there when he left work. Panic washes over him like a bucket of cold water.

“Jon?” Martin can’t stop his voice from rising in pitch to almost a squeak. He sets the food on a different burner and turns off the one he was using, and goes over to him, pulling Jon’s burned hand toward him as gently as he can manage. Jon goes easily, pliant under Martin’s fingers, feeling warm and real, and he hums as Martin gently touches at the edge of the burn, worried that it’s still-- fresh. New. 

Jon makes no other noise as Martin gently moves his fingers along the edge of the scar, then moves inward when he’s certain it won’t hurt Jon. It’s shiny and reflects the kitchen light oddly, but it’s rough and set and, now that Martin has had a better look at it, _months old_. 

Jon is watching him like this is something new, something fascinating, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing, but there’s a new wariness in his eyes as well. “What, Jon, wh-what _happened_? I just, I just saw you, like, a few hours ago! What-- _how_\--”

Martin breaks off into wordless sputtering, and watches Jon _smile_. Just a small upturn of his lips, but it’s very obvious on Jon because Jon _never smiles_ and _something is wrong_ but Martin doesn’t know _what_.

(There’s a small part in his brain that’s repeating, _Not Jon, this isn’t Jon, it’s not Jon--_ but there’s an even smaller part that’s concrete certain, whispering, _No, it’s him. It’s him._ He doesn’t know which one to listen to.)

“A handshake gone awry,” Jon says, like it’s some joke. His smile grows until it’s obvious, a wide and punch-drunk thing, and he starts to look dazed, openly staring at Martin like he’s something unreal and good, something once lost but now found again.

Martin flushes at the bare affection in Jon’s expression-- _something_ is _really wrong_. Jon isn’t like this. Jon is irritable, peevish, rude, sardonic-- not _whatever this is_.

“_Jon_.” He’s at a loss for words. He’s floating just above the panic now, very aware that it’s making it hard to think properly but not falling into it, because letting himself panic while Jon looks like he’s coming down from some kind of drug high is _unacceptable_, to say the _least_.

He settles on asking, “Are you, are you _okay_?” because now he’s worried that maybe Jon was drugged somehow, but even if that was the case it doesn’t explain his whole host of new scars. But also, given all of the scars, new or not, an irrational part of Martin reasons away that maybe he _is_ on drugs, for the pain or something--

Jon murmurs, “I am for now.” and he takes ahold of Martin’s hands, running his thumb over Martin’s knuckles, and it is suddenly very hard to think at all.

Martin feels the faint wisps of a new crush spark and has the vague thought of _Not even in my wildest daydreams--_ and then Jon lets him go, and his hands are cold without Jon’s skin on his.

Jon mumbles an apology, but the besotted look on his face hasn’t lessened and it’s making Martin’s heart do funny things and _also_ making it hard to breathe.

“Are you,” Martin pauses while his brain catches up with his mouth. “Are you okay? Jon, are you okay? You look…” Like he went through _hell--_ “...awful.”

Jon snorts and laughs a little, soft and tired and wry and one of the best sounds Martin has ever heard. “I could be better,” he says, and then murmurs again, a barely audible, “I miss you.”

Martin blinks. There’s a heavy-hearted resonance to Jon’s voice that doesn’t add up to what Martin has pieced together. “I’m right here?”

Something in Jon’s expression changes, but Jon looks away too quickly and Martin doesn’t get to see it through. “Yeah…” Jon stands, and Martin stands too. “I should go.”

Martin moves to physically block him before Jon even takes a step. “Y-you--! You should rest! You look…” he already called Jon awful looking, and bites down on saying it a second time. “I-I made food, so, so at least _eat_.”

Jon doesn’t even put up a token resistance before he sits down again. “Alright.”

It takes him a second, but Martin’s heart restarts and he starts moving.

He scrambles to get plates and cutlery, and Jon watches him the entire time. The feeling isn’t unpleasant, but it’s a heavy, warm weight on his back that he’s not used to, so it’s distracting. He almost drops a plate when he gets it down from the cupboard, and flushes when Jon huffs out a laugh. Not mocking like Martin is used to hearing, but-- amused. Affectionate.

Jon mumbles a thanks when Martin puts the plate down in front of him, hands him a fork, and serves him a portion. He starts eating without any kind of complaint-- which is unusual, because getting Jon to eat real food is like pulling teeth. But Martin tries not to think too hard about that, because something is _really, definitely_ wrong and Jon isn’t acting like himself. If he even _is_ himself

He even asks for _seconds_.

They don’t talk while they eat because Martin is thoroughly at a loss for words and Jon seems to be enjoying the mostly comfortable silence. Jon has this soft, fond expression on his face that Martin finds hard to look at for more than a few seconds, and that expression takes on new life once Martin starts to gather their dishes to wash them.

“Let me help.” He stands and grabs the drying rag Martin keeps around his tap before Martin can say no. And then he gives Martin this small, confused, and playful smile, like this is some kind of game that he’s enjoying, and Martin sighs.

“Alright.” He grabs a sponge and starts the water. While he waits for it to get warm, he looks at Jon again, and looks him over.

Jon is looking around Martin’s kitchen with such a raw expression of longing that it almost knocks Martin’s legs out from under him. He’s wringing the rag between his hands, twisting it this way and that, and he glances at Martin before staring down at the floor. “This is a nice place,” he mumbles.

Martin feels himself blush, and turns to start washing the dishes. “I think so.” He doesn’t let himself think about the relative mess of the place, given how busy he’s been the past few days. And he’s more than a little relieved that Jon hasn’t thought to bring it up either.

_If it even is Jon--_ the paranoia is starting to tire him out.

They lapse into a temporary silence. Martin hands Jon a plate and tells him, “Second cupboard on the left.”

Jon puts the plate away, and then shyly asks, “So...what did you do today?”

Martin’s earlier irritation hits him like a hammer, and he snorts. “Like you don’t know,” he grumbles.

Jon is still staring at the small stack of plates in Martin’s cupboard, but he sees Jon frown in profile. “Humor me,” he says, and it’s so close to pleading that it takes the wind out of Martin’s sails.

“Well.” Martin sighs, and hands Jon the other plate. He waits for the clink of ceramic before saying, “Spent my entire day knocking on doors in Bexley, trying to find an older woman named Angela, and--”

“Ah, yes.”

Martin shoots a look over at Jon, who’s nodding as if remembering what Martin is talking about. It makes the irritation flare again, because of _course_ Jon would _forget_ about something like this--

But then Jon is smiling at him again, small and shy and _apologetic_, and Jon asks in much the same way, “Have any pleasant chats about jigsaws…?”

He says it like it’s some kind of injoke, but it doesn’t stick the landing and Martin blinks. “No?”

“Oh.” Jon looks away, and the blush coloring his face makes the pock mark scars stand out even more. The sight makes Martin’s stomach twist in an odd way.

Martin hands him their cups, and Jon places them gently on the shelf just above the plates, not saying a word.

Then, “I’m...sorry, Martin.”

There’s a pain in his voice that makes Martin pause, and he turns his body toward Jon instead of just looking over. Jon shies away from him, shaking his head.

“What are you sorry for?” Martin asks, and he realizes he sounds more cross that he actually feels, given how guiltily Jon is staring at Martin’s kitchen backsplash, but he doesn’t try to explain or take it back.

“A lot of things,” Jon says, in just a whisper. His eyes go distant, staring past the wall in front of him, and he rubs absently at his burned hand. “Too many things to list.” 

Martin wants to _do_ something, to comfort him in some way, but Jon turns and walks back over to the table in a daze. Martin chews on his bottom lip and quickly finishes rinsing their silverware before abandoning them on the counter and drying off his hands.

When he turns to Jon, standing in the middle of his kitchen, Jon is looking down at his hands with something like pain creasing his brow.

The kinetic energy in Martin fizzles, and he hesitates. “Jon?”

“I should really go,” Jon says softly. He doesn’t look up, but he holds his burned hand out to Martin, and Martin takes it before he can think better of it. “It was…” Jon’s laugh is exhausted, but also happy. It burns in Martin’s chest like a branding iron, and he squeezes Jon’s hand. He doesn’t want to let go. “It was good to see you, Martin,” he finishes, so tender that tears well up in Martin’s eyes.

It hits him like a sack of bricks, the realization that yes, this _is_ Jon, even if it’s not _his_ Jon-- whatever that means. Time travel seems incredibly farfetched, even given everything he’s read at work, but. But it fits so snugly in his chest, somehow, that _this is Jon_. He has so many questions he wants to ask, now, but they all taste like ash on his tongue.

He settles on asking, “Will you, will you be okay?” Because he somehow knows that he can’t keep Jon here, with him, no matter how hard he tries. That him showing up here was some kind of respite. That something is going on that he doesn’t understand, something that’s draining and hard enough that Jon is so... So open, even with Martin.

“I think so,” Jon says, and somehow that makes Martin even more worried than a straight No would have.  


“Please. Please be careful, Jon.”

Jon steps into Martin’s space and wraps his arms around him, and Martin freezes. Jon is small, thin with sharp angles, and shaking a little when Martin lets himself hug him back.

“You...you too, Martin,” Jon mumbles into his shoulder, and a new fear for the future pools in Martin’s chest. “Be careful.”

When he pulls away he looks a little more like himself, with a wry smirk on his face that makes Martin’s stomach flip. “Best forget I was ever here, Martin,” he says, and even sounds more like himself. He steps back and brushes himself off, like doing so will get the many, many wrinkles out of his clothes, and then he turns and starts towards Martin’s bedroom.

“Uh, Jon?” Jon doesn’t stop, and Martin starts to follow. The dread quickly gives way to confusion, and then frustration as Jon doesn’t even slow down on his way further into the flat. “Jon, the, the front door is _that_ way--”

Jon shuts his bedroom door in his face, and Martin needs to take a moment to collect himself. There’s an ember of irritation as he opens the door, saying, “Jon, this isn’t _funny--_”

But his bedroom is empty, and the window is still locked.

**Author's Note:**

> i was possessed by the feral spirit of time travel and wrote the first draft of this in like twenty minutes, and then the magnus writers discord helped me make it into something presentable, because they're wonderful and have the best ideas


End file.
